Addicted After All(117)

I point a finger at him. “That is a damn good metaphor and I came up with it all on my own.”

Lo shields our baby’s ears playfully. “No cursing, Lily Martha Calloway.”

I crinkle my nose. “I don’t like my full name.”

“Don’t worry,” he says with that teasing look, “I’m going to make you a Hale soon.”

I want to revel in that fact, but my smile fades by it. I’ve reminded him so many times that it’s okay if it doesn’t happen. He has a lot on his plate, and orchestrating a wedding is too much. I wouldn’t want to cause him more stress. Plus, I fear our parents taking over and turning it into their day again. It’s best to just set weddings aside. Contemplate it in five years’ time when things settle and Maximoff is older.

Neither of us ever suggests eloping. The idea feels like another deceit or lie that we’ve concocted.

“It’s going to happen,” Lo says, his gaze slowly narrowing. He still rocks our son in his arms.

“I know, I know.” I try to drop the subject. “What color eyes do you think he’ll have?” The doctors said that a baby’s eye color changes in their first year, so we’re not one-hundred percent sure on the hue.

While he answers, I lead Lo out the door, and I can feel his body tensing behind me. But he follows me into the hallway regardless.

“Your green ones,” he says. I spin around and peek at our son. His eyelids open as he stretches his arms and he giggles when he stares at my eyebrows. Oh my God. He has the cutest dimpled cheeks and little nose. At six pounds, two ounces, he came out a bit small but a lot heart-stoppingly adorable. It sounds cheesy, but it’s my baby. I feel like the cheese-factor rises once you reproduce.

“You melt every time you see him,” Lo tells me. “Here, so you can drool a little longer.”

I gape as he hands Maximoff off to me. “That’s so mean, Loren.”

“I’m only stating the truth, Lily Martha.”

I squint at him, hoping to penetrate him with my glare. Instead he laughs, his smile overtaking his face. I give up. “I think he’ll have green eyes too,” I relent.

Ryke has already professed that they’ll probably be amber like Lo’s. But that was before Maximoff was even born.

With the baby now in my care, we descend the staircase together. As soon as we breach the stainless steel kitchen, I hear noises. I strain my ears.

It sounds like…muffled arguing. But I can’t be sure. Living with Ryke and Daisy, I’ve overheard their distant sex noises and sometimes they sound like full-on fighting. Bodies slamming against things. Stifled yells (of ecstasy). Things of that nature.

I whip my head around the barren kitchen, expecting to find a couple, maybe even humping on the counter. Not that I want to catch anyone in the act. Porn. It would be like real porn in my face.

Plus, I’m holding a baby. Someone I feel vitally protective over. Maximoff is allowed to watch porn never. Not even when he’s a teenager. Or in college. Nope. No. No. I’m putting my foot down on that one.

The noises suddenly stop.

“Lo,” I say as he scans the room, nothing but sparkly clean granite countertops, leather bar stools and dim lights. “I think we have ghosts in this house.”

His brows shoot up. “Ghosts that f*ck?”

I adjust my baby in a one-hand cradle and then punch Lo’s arm. It’s only fair. F-bombs have been banned in the presence of baby ears.

He rolls his eyes. And then something knocks in the pantry, like a can clattering to the floor. I jump, thankfully clutching Maximoff tighter and not dropping him. Dear God, don’t let me drop my baby. I cannot ever be that startled.

Lo stretches his arm out, keeping both me and our baby away from the pantry. “It’s probably just mice.”

My eyes grow big. “Large, mutant mice.”

And then the pantry door slowly creaks open like something from a horror film. When I see a shirtless Ryke, my nerves plummet to nothingness.

“Or it’s just my horny older brother,” Lo says with a bitter smile.

“We weren’t screwing,” is the first thing Ryke says. His gym shorts are slightly askew, and he lifts them higher on his waist, his hair so disheveled that I can tell a girl ran her fingers through it. His lips are pink and raw like he’s been in one serious make-out session.

I break into a huge grin. This image does not turn me on in any way, shape or form. I love my hormones again.